SJ Longthorne

Relationship with food is still awful, though I’m recovered enough now that I no longer qualify for help. I’m largely bed-bound when I’m home (most days) because of the way I prioritise my time to write as much as possible. I only wash if I’m not leaving the house.

The past few weeks, I’ve found it hard to feel proud of my accomplishments, or to see them as such at all. Compliments and praise sound like lies. Everything feels abrasive. It’s all arched backs and bristling hackles.

My mind tells me that no matter how hard I work, I’ll never be as good as the media I consume. That others think so too but would never tell me. I’m convinced there’s a low, glass ceiling, and I’m close to hitting it. And that terrifies me.

I love that my career is my passion, but that also makes me vulnerable. Things are stable at the moment, but what about after? I feel like my new career was merely leant to me. That it’ll be taken away for good, and I’ll spend the rest of my life pining for that brief memory.